


Escape

by heilz



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Drug Use, Drug-Induced Sex, Human Trafficking, M/M, Prostitution, there are some other things but they're not really relevant until later
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-08-12
Updated: 2014-08-17
Packaged: 2018-02-12 19:47:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,754
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2122455
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heilz/pseuds/heilz
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Will Graham is a man who's been through hell and back, and now, he's going back again. With a past that continues to haunt and a present that never seems to end, Will finds that his future is now only reachable with the help of his buyer, a man shrouded in perfect mystery. But, still, love is hopeless no matter where you find it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Search for a Seizure

**Author's Note:**

> I've started writing serious fics again, yay! And with only a couple weeks before school starts back up! I am shit!!
> 
> Anyways, I'm stuck with this moderately rad friend who kind of came up with this plot idea as a joke, and I kind of took it and ran with it. I should maybe mention she wanted me to name the fic after her. I didn't laugh. c:
> 
> SO, I've basically thrown Sweet Taste of Sanity completely to the wayside after a couple months of hiatus, and this baby is its replacement. Which, in all honesty, I like this plot better, because its ending will be awesome. Now, without further rambling, here is the beginning result of a few hours of research and sadistic planning~!

Will Graham, age thirty. Hobbies: getting honest to goodness, blackout drunk.

It had already been a few days since he’d been laid off by UPS. Who knew you could fuck up a job that only entailed driving around and dropping packages off at their preordained destinations? Apparently not Will; he’d only totaled the little girl’s bike. She’d jumped away in time. He’d even offered to pay for a brand new bicycle for the brat.

But now, while in-between jobs yet _again_ and no friends to lean on, he leaned on his alcohol. He had been sitting in the bar for hours, his senses deteriorating by the second as he finished glass after glass of any hard liquor whose name happened to come tumbling out his mouth, and even the bartender’s growingly hesitant glances towards him had become blurry and ultimately unimportant.

Later, when he got home, he’d get some opium going through him. He laughed aloud just thinking of the high he’d get, startling some of his fellow patrons.

Distantly, he felt a hand on his arm.

“Sir, I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”

Will lolled his head back and blinked at the bartender standing next to him. “Y’wha?”

The woman sighed and pulled an arm around her shoulders, steadying him like it was standard procedure. “I’ll call a cab for you. You’re a mess. Can you tell me where you live?”

Will simply continued to stare at her, a sudden smile turning up the corners of his lips. She was pretty.

“Do you have your wallet on you?”

Again, Will was unable to offer up an answer. Instead, they left the bar—Will nearly tripping over both himself and the bartender—and the lady sat him on a nearby bench to get him sorted out. She pulled out his wallet from his pocket, taking out his credentials for his address.

“Alright, gotcha. I’ll pay for your cab, okay? Just get home safe.” She patted his head, replacing his wallet and standing up.

But this wouldn’t do. No, he couldn’t wait till he got back to his cramped apartment to get his fix. While the woman’s back was turned, he lurched forward, bringing himself to an unsteady stand and wandering away, allowing himself to be taken by the current of the many passersby that occupied the city sidewalk. He slipped into a nearby alley, away from all the commotion and out of sight from the woman who’d helped him.

He’d barely walked a dozen feet into the alley before his legs gave up on him and he collapsed onto the hard and unforgiving concrete, scattered trash heaps doing little to break his fall. In the darkness of night, beyond reach of the city streetlights, he rolled over and pulled at his inner jacket pocket. The satisfying feel of plastic and foil met his fingertips, and he exhaled, already calm in anticipation of what was to come.

He’d only pulled out the bag before he was out like a light.

 

Will woke to harsh voices and darkness illuminated by moonlight. He blinked a couple times to chase away his fatigue, but the subtle movement only assisted the pulse-regulated hammering in his head. He was tired and wanted to go back to sleep, but a nagging at the back of his conscience told him that he was in some sort of predicament at the moment.

For now, he closed his eyes and listened.

“He’s a fucking druggy. Got opium on him.”

“You can tell?”

A snort raked Will's eardrums.

“Wh-whatever. So what if he’s a druggy? Business has been slow. People don’t really miss druggies these days anyway, right? So?”

“I guess so. Check his wallet, we could use some extra cash. Make sure he doesn’t live in some nice estate, too. He may be a fucked up little rich boy.”

Someone gave a hesitant laugh. “Doesn’t really look it…”

“Whatever. Just check him.”

At that, Will’s reflexes finally kicked in, and though they were sluggish, it didn’t take anything more than animalistic instinct to know he was in danger. He blatantly ignored his muscles’ screaming agony as he pushed himself up from the ground, wobbling to a standstill and facing the men—two men—that were approaching him.

The one to the left, the bigger man, laughed at his show of weak defiance. “Ah, damn. He’s awake. Guess the show’s over, eh, Eddie?” He nudged the man next to him, smaller but with broader shoulders and a sorry moustache.

“Hah, I guess so.”

And despite their words, they moved in on Will, his adrenaline rush having been exhausted already. All he could do was watch them approach…

But right as the big one reached for him, his body finally jumpstarted into autopilot.

He threw a quick punch at the man’s abdomen, his knuckles hitting ab-defended gut but causing the man to stop in his tracks all the same. However, the other man, Eddie, gave him no time to recover from the exertion. He was kneed in his own gut, and he doubled over before tumbling back onto solid ground, face down.

“Fuckin’ brat,” one grunted—Will assumed it was the man he’d hit. “Piece of shit, that actually kind of hurt.” As if to emphasize his anger, a sharp blow was dealt to Will’s side, and he flopped over, belly exposed. Another kick to his gut subsequently followed, and a few more after that before Will realized that he should curl up and protect himself. Even so, his arms were immediately pried from his knees by Eddie while the other man vented his short fuse on Will’s body. Will couldn’t tell if he was screaming or not, but in the middle of an abandoned alley, he supposed no one would be able to hear him anyway.

His head hurt. His chest was burning. Everything was pounding—he was on fire. Was he going to die?

Then, all at once, the pounding stopped. Well, at least for a moment, until his head began to beat to his heart’s thrumming once more. He was hanging between consciousness and unconsciousness by a thread, and when he was picked up by the two men, he felt as if he were floating upon clouds.

And even though the searing pain beneath his skin hadn’t been doused in the slightest, he fell into a cloud, the world of the unconscious welcoming him into its shadowed depths.

 

Will was awake, but his eyes were playing tricks on him. The damn things wouldn’t open.

The darkness that engulfed him wasn’t the kind that was illuminated by moonlight; no, this darkness was physical and absolute, barring him from opening his eyes even a slit. He couldn’t even move his arms—despite the straining ache his muscles advertised with even the slightest movement, his wrists were bound together. The cloth burned where it touched his skin. His mouth, too, housed an uninvited occupant. His tongue felt like sandpaper against the gag.

He could still hear, though. From what he could discern, there were others with him in what he assumed was a large vehicle. Muffled sounds arose from various points in the fabricated darkness; they were gagged as well, whoever _they_ were. He tried to think past his intensified migraine, past his body’s cries for a drug’s repose.

Essentially kidnapped. Bound, gagged, blinded. Herded like sheep headed to slaughter. The signs were there, and all he could do was grasp through the smoke within his mind to touch the answer.

And though the conclusion continued to elude him, it was more than obvious that he was in deep shit.

As Will sat, left in the dark to wallow in his own turbulent emotions, he felt panic rise as if it were bile up his throat. Hastened breaths quickly evolved into hyperventilation as his heartbeat skyrocketed, threatening to pump itself right out of his chest. The twisted fabric gag wasn’t doing much to help his erratic breathing, either.  He wanted to open his eyes— _he needed his opium._ His body was on fire; he had to get out, had to run.

But now, his body refused to give even half a twitch.

Suddenly, the vehicle stopped, and Will distantly heard the sound of doors slamming shut. He wondered if he was imagining the sound of footsteps on pavement, but soon enough, another set of doors were opened, this time much closer to Will. They were probably in a truck—like one of those big fucking UPS trucks with the back doors.

Fucking UPS.

There were grunts and gargled yelps and the sounds of bodies being dragged. The crunch of bone and flesh on pavement followed, and before Will could brace himself, he felt hands grab at him and pull. He didn’t have the energy to even contemplate putting up a fight. He was so _tired_ , and his craving had only grown from the exertion of being tossed about like a ragdoll. He barely acknowledged the pain that blossomed from his tailbone when he was yanked from the truck, and made no attempt to sit up. He just wanted to sleep because maybe when he woke up, things wouldn’t be so bad.

Maybe when he woke up he’d chase the dragon back to euphoria.

But his sweet thoughts were cut short as a hand from beyond the darkness that shrouded him pulled him jerkily to his feet. He shook like a newborn foal, unsure of anything and everything.

He was wrenched forward, led around surrounded by the ‘others’ who all voiced their discomfort and panic best they could around their own gags.

Will couldn’t find it within himself to scream into the otherwise still air—he supposed it was still nighttime. After all, what would screaming do? His body was in turmoil, and his mind possibly even more so. If anything, he wanted to sleep.

Then, as if coincidentally acceding to his wishes, he was flung back to the ground and left to his own devices. He could try to squirm, to resist, but puzzle pieces of memory from the night before were dusting themselves off to some form of clarity in his mind, and his throbbing ribs skewed the scale in their favor. Resistance was indeed futile when the world worked against you; Will knew that well.

So instead, he pulled his knees up as close as he could get them to his chest, turning to his side.

His last thoughts were of his fix—he’d dropped the plastic bag back in the alley.  

 

When he woke, his eyes were bombarded with millions of fragments of light. Every blink subjected him to blazing fireworks, and the slightest movement of whatever was around him boomed like a bomb. He tried moving his head a little to shield his eyes from the light, but apparently thousands of little pinpricks from hell had lodged themselves in his neck and he would have screamed in agony if he had the means to.

The gag was still there.

He shut his eyes lightly, too weak to screw them tighter, and suddenly a set of random booms got closer, approaching him. He didn’t open his eyes to look.

 “This’s the one that rich fucker wants?”

“I guess so. He’d barely been in here for a minute and he just pointed at ’im.”

“Is he, you know. Gay?”

“Damned if I know. He’s got class, but we’ve all got our secrets, eh?”

“Has he even bought guys before, though?”

“Boy, shut your trap and just pick him up. He ain’t weigh more’n a couple sacks of flour.”

“…Right.”

Will didn’t struggle as he was lifted up from the floor, strong arms wrapped across his back and behind his knees. He was carried a short distance before a door opened and fresh air hit his nostrils like a bad snort of coke. Luckily, he didn’t have the strength to cough.

“Hello, Doctor Lecter.”

“Good morning.”

“So, this’n, right?”                                                                                                     

“Yes, that would be him. I have already made the arrangements with Tobias. I will wait here for you to confirm, of course, if you would like.”

“Oh, no, sir. It’s all good.”

“Well, then. Good day to the both of you.”

“To you too!”

Suddenly, Will felt himself being exchanged, strong arms for firm and cold hands that guided him to cushioned, cool leather. Throughout the whole exchange, Will had kept his eyes closed, but he felt the world dim around him and finally opened his eyes just after a car door shut beyond his feet.

He was currently lying in a small luxury car, and a man was climbing into the front.

The man shut his own door with an unforgiving thud, and Will flinched.

“Are you awake?”

The question hung in the enclosed air of the car, dissipating only when the man turned the ignition and the buzzing hum of the engine met his ears. His senses were becoming stable again, bit by bit.

The car started forward, and inertia pushed Will gently against the back seats. He had always liked the feel of driving, and this newfound false sense of security was effectively lulling him.

Will suddenly realized that he hadn’t answered the man’s question, but he didn’t seem too keen upon keeping discussion going, as both hands were set on the wheel and his gaze was directed straight ahead.

But then, as thoughts from the hellish experience before his blackout came flooding back, Will realized that this could be his _buyer._

Will tried to raise his voice, to seek an answer to the question that throbbed almost as fiercely as his _need,_ but his parched throat offered no traction for his words. Instead, a pitiful, mouse-like squeak choked its way out. The only reaction he got was a readjustment of the man’s hands on the wheel.

“As you are not feeling well, I will save introductions for when we arrive. It is a long drive, so I will suggest you rest your body for the time being. There is much work to be done.”

And that was the last thing Will heard before his eyes slid shut and sweet darkness lapped at his consciousness once more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We don't actually hate UPS. (-:


	2. Another Day, Another Misery

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Will's welcome into the Lecter household is full of bad times and withdrawal. Meanwhile, Hannibal appreciates Will's suffering.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Big kudos to my editor, Bebeeska. She really helped me with this chapter, and without her, this chapter would probably bring tears to your eyes - and not in the good way. 
> 
> *whispers* Still only moderately rad tho.
> 
> Anyways, gotta love an early update, right? This one also kind of goes to my editor. If I didn't have someone helping me out with this, I would probably never get around to updating in a timely manner. *glances guiltily at Sweet Taste of Sanity*
> 
> So, cheers to chapter two!

When he was dredged back up from his dreamless slumber, Will found himself lying on his back, staring up at a cool cobalt gray ceiling. He shifted, the once sharp pain that had attacked him at every crevice of his body now a dull throbbing that pulsated with the beat of his heart, and felt silken sheets brush against his skin.

He was in a bed.

And a nice bed, by the feel of it. He moved his eyes around without the help of his neck, stirring up his migraine again, but even that was a far-off sensation. The sheets were dark blue, harmonizing with the rest of the dark-themed room nicely. It was certainly easy on the eyes.

Suddenly, a new and harsher pain resurfaced with a vengeance. That burning feeling he got when he went without a hit for longer than his body could handle. He brought an unsteady hand under the sheets to his pocket, only to feel more silk—silk pajamas. He’d been changed.

“Good evening,” a voice greeted from a corner of the room. Will would have jerked his head in the direction of the voice if he could, but as lethargic as he was, it wasn’t exactly a priority. Everything was fuzzy, and he felt as if he were trying to move through a pool of syrup. All but his craving had been dumbed down.

“How are you feeling? Could I get you anything?”

Will’s lips fumbled in search of how to pronounce that one word. “W…at…er…” he choked.

The man’s lips grinned, but his eyes remained icy. “Of course. One moment, please.”

Will waited and counted to around thirty-four before the man came back, a pristine glass filled halfway with crystalline water in his hand. The only thing that seemed out of place was the white straw protruding over the rim.

“Please drink slowly. We wouldn’t want you to choke on your very first night, would we?” the man said, and Will couldn’t tell by his tone whether that was supposed to be a joke or not, but he didn’t reply anyways, reaching weakly yet desperately for the glass. Water came before opium; that, he knew.

“Slowly,” the man repeated, and it was only then that Will recognized the strong but unobtrusive accent that adorned each syllable spoken. It may have been pleasant if Will weren’t in such inner turmoil that he didn’t have the strength to digest at the moment. For now, he simply sipped from the straw, hands shakily gripping the glass like a lifeline.

But, he thought fleetingly, it kind of was, in a sense.

He hadn’t drank much of the water before he felt somewhat rejuvenated and reluctant to drink any more. He glanced around for a place to set the glass, but just as he did, the man eased it from his fingers, positing it on a nearby nightstand.

“So, I promised our introductions, didn’t I?” he asked, turning back to Will. He only nodded numbly.

“I am Hannibal Lecter,” he said. “I am a local psychiatrist and own an office here in Baltimore. And you are?”

Will blinked, his brain functioning at not even half speed as he tried to remember himself. It was a strange feeling, but nothing he was foreign to. “Will…Graham,” he replied, voice shaky and grated. Again, the fact that he was indeed a captive had slipped his mind. He would later blame it on circumstance; this Hannibal character was so completely  _not_ the stereotypical client to human traffickers. He had done absolutely nothing to approach Will in a way he would be uncomfortable with, but then again, what good would harassing a bedridden man do? It wasn’t like he knew the ins and outs of human trafficking, but he could still grasp a wisp of how it was supposed to go.

“What did you do for a living, Will?” Hannibal asked, returning to his chair in the corner and crossing his legs.

_Hannibal._ What a peculiar name.

“I’ve been…in-between…for a while…” he panted, those few words exhausting him more than when he’d run the mile in under five minutes as a kid.

“What sort of jobs were you doing, then? Freelance?”

“I was a…UPS driver…”

“I see.”

The conversation died, leaving Will to his headache and not much else. They sat in silence for a few minutes, though strangely, the air wasn’t laced with the usual awkwardness that occurred in moments like those. The instilled quiet was an effective tranquilizer, sapping the last reserves of Will’s energy.

He fluttered back to sleep, ready to wrap himself back in that welcoming cocoon of warmth and fuzz.

 

Will woke with a start. His heart was racing, and his skin was on fire, yet he was chilled with goosebumps over his whole body. He was in pain—the pain was red behind his eyelids. He held himself, trying to keep warm though it fueled the fire all the more as he buried himself within the smooth and unfamiliar sheets.

Then, without warning, his stomach surged and an abundance of liquid flowed up the wrong way and broke past his lips, seeping into the sheets and effectively soaking him. He coughed violently, his strength reservoir depleting by each tiny fraction of a second. Dry heaves followed his initial vomit, and he lay under the covers of the strange bed, holding himself, his fix on his mind as he endured the consequences of being without.

And just as suddenly as he’d woken, the covers were ripped from above him, exposing him to chilled air and raising his skin all the more. He looked up, now breathing like he’d finished a marathon just moments ago, to see that man that had been in his dream kneeling above him on the bed.

“Will, I need you to sit up.”

Will simply stared incomprehensively at the man, trying to figure out why this mirage felt so  _real._ Who was really there, lifting the sheets? If he recalled correctly, his imagination had named this man something quite unique.

“Will. I need you to get out of this bed. Can you hear me? Do you understand? Will.” A hand reached down to him, cool and pleasant. It didn’t add to the bounty of goosebumps on his body, but rather instilled a calm inside of Will that aided his racing heart and flaming skin.

Oh, right. Hannibal. That’s who this was. His buyer.

He was pulled up, gentle and precise movements finally succeeding in getting him to sit up and somehow guide him out from the soiled sheets. His feet hit smooth wood flooring when he stood, and the black fatigue blotches that attacked his eyes as he straightened sent him reeling completely into Hannibal’s arms. He subconsciously expected a chill that matched the man’s hands, but his chest was warm.

He subliminally half-anticipated a pat to the head, a soft word of comfort, or something that would suffice as an attempt to soothe a drug addict suffering from withdrawal—or anyone becoming sick like this in general. But he was only placed to the side, sat on a chair like a broken doll whose repair would be tended to later.

Will watched through bleary eyes from his front-row seat as his buyer got to work. He was a fluid machine, ripping off the dirtied sheets with methodical quickness, and before Will could even manage to blink, the bed was stripped and Hannibal had left the room.

_Am I in trouble…?_ Will wondered dazedly. He couldn’t conjure up any scrap of premonition from the thought; at the moment, they were just words in his head.

Hannibal was back after an almost unnoticeable absence, now turning his attention to Will.

“I suppose all these changes would have an even greater effect on an opium addict,” he mused, picking Will back up. “But, we will simply have to work around that. For now, let’s get you cleaned up.”

Will didn’t really understand what Hannibal meant by ‘cleaned up’ until he found himself being placed on the edge of a bathtub with Hannibal already working his pajamas off. Again, his movements were quick and purposeful, his very breath screaming efficiency. Will was almost mesmerized by this person’s looming control over everything around him. Everything, including Will.

Once he was stripped bare, Hannibal prepared the bath, and once he decided that it was at a suitable temperature, he guided Will into the filled tub. It was very warm, but not to the point of an uncomfortable scorch.

Hannibal pulled out a bar of soap from a granite counter, giving Will a moment to remember what was  _really_ going on. Engulfed in flame, the water did nothing to put out the agony that coursed through his veins. Every beat of his overworked heart was like a faraway drumming to a death march.  _It hurt. Everything hurt. He needed out. His opium—where was his opium—_

“Are you able to wash yourself, Will?” Hannibal asked, holding out the bar of soap in front of the shaking man. At some point, Will had wrapped himself in his own arms protectively.

When Will supplied no answer, Hannibal simply got to work, wetting the soap and systematically dragging it over whatever skin Will allowed to be exposed. And though it was apparent something was very, very wrong at the moment, he did not stop his ministries until he was satisfied that all of the sick had been cleansed. He’d even gone as far as to wash Will’s hair. Will probably wouldn’t have been thankful even if he’d been functioning at full capacity.

Hannibal stood and pulled a towel out of a cabinet, crisp and white, as pristine as the rest of the large bathroom. Will’s own juxtaposition was horrendously obvious here; the bath had certainly helped his appearance, but his withdrawn, aged features couldn’t be washed away so easily. He looked the very essence of exhaustion. And while Hannibal could smell the reek of opium radiating from the younger man, he had not found any in his clothes, which led him to the only conclusion available.

And if Hannibal was concerned, he didn’t show it. He pulled Will up from the tub—Will’s inability to cooperate being a given—and sat him on the nearby toilet. He was still trembling.

Now, Hannibal had seen people look like death before. He’d seen people at the edge of their lives, had even been the one tolead them across the line into infinite abyss. He’d teetered at that line himself, once. And if memory served him well, as it always did, Will fit the picture to a tee.

The only difference was that people who looked like death never made it into his house while their hearts still beat.

And in that moment, Hannibal decided. He had a lot of work to do, to prepare for his soon-to-be suicidal houseguest. Concurrently, along a different train of thought, Hannibal decided that whatever was to be born out of this strange new development was destined to be interesting.

 At the same time, Will was being attacked. His stomach was doing somersaults, but nothing was coming up as a result—he had nothing to be vomited, more accurately. Every time he opened his eyes, viscous artificial light stabbed at his retinas, and everything around him blurred and swirled in on each other. The all-out assault on his everything was excruciating, and through the misery of it all, the thought of his opium resonated within the confinement of his suffering conscience.

Where the  _fuck_ was his opium?

He clutched at his head, gripping handfuls of dark curls and squeezing his eyes shut—it didn’t help the vengeful migraine, but at least he didn’t have to see his world turn to smoothie before his inflicted eyes.

Through it all, someone was talking, saying something. He was being touched—toweled down, or something to that effect. He was lifted and carried somewhere, and when he opened his eyes after being laid down, forgiving darkness graced his sight.

He was tucked in under the covers of a bed, and there were more sounds coming from whoever was with him, but he didn’t possess the capacity to grasp much beyond his own small world at the moment. Because though his eyes had been given mercy, everything still spun, and his body was still waging war upon itself.

And above everything else, with every new pain and his mounting despair, the need for escape tore at his soul.

Hannibal watched impassively as the man he’d bought only the day before writhe under self-inflicted torment. He’d known he was an addict from the start. He  _hadn’t_ known that he was already undergoing withdrawal—and Hannibal not knowing something was something of a feat in itself. He’d thought having an under-the-influence housekeeper would be its own entertainment, but the role of an owner tending to their new sick puppy was something he hadn’t considered, and for that reason alone, the very premise interested him.

How to care for a suicide prone pet while he knew nothing about them in the first place? It was like playing chess without knowing the rules. It may not be fun in the short term, but winning would only be that much more glorious.

Will dazedly felt the presence beside him disappear. Its importance paled in comparison to everything else, but Will still felt a hollow eat its way to his convulsing stomach at the notion of being alone.

Hannibal made his way to his kitchen, taking out a clean glass from a cabinet and filling it to the rim this time. A straw was dropped into the clear liquid, and he turned to go back into the bedroom. Though Will would think otherwise, he needed water more than opium, so Hannibal was there to know that for him.

He sat on the bed by Will’s side, talking soothing nothings to him and holding his head up to ease the straw past his lips. Out of habit, most likely, Will sipped, and he made it halfway through the glass before a cough caught him by surprise. And though he didn’t puke, his throat was wracked raw at the reflex.

And though he wouldn’t remember it, though he would forget the acts and remember the pain, Hannibal was there. Maybe he wasn’t there for the right reasons, maybe he was there only for himself. But for the first time, someone was there.

They weren’t drugs. They weren’t alcohol. There was a real person sitting right before him to lean on, to become his strength. And Will had never considered quitting—it was the one thing he’d never dreamed of giving up on. So maybe the whole and complete supposition wasn’t there yet, but there was something—a ghost of premonition, perhaps, lying underneath dusting layers of rational thought. The thought of a life beyond his fix and need and false ecstasy. And though he couldn’t possibly know it in his current predicament, he’d have plenty of time to think about a life like that; perhaps not of normalcy and the commonplace, because little did Will know that a life alongside Hannibal Lecter was not a life to be grateful for, but a life without this  _misery_ would be enough.

And so he would think.


	3. In the Beginning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As Will becomes accustomed to his new life as a trafficked housekeeper, he learns more about the man who bought him, inadvertently beginning his plunge into Hannibal's darkness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This took forever to write. Also Bebeeska's cat was more helpful than she was on this chapter. All she did was yell at me to write )-:
> 
> Anyways, our longest chapter yet introduces Hanni and Will's new relationship - yay character development!! It's important!!!
> 
> P.S. - I want to leave a big thank you here for those of you who leave your awesome words of encouragement for us on here. Bebeeska and I freak out every time we get a comment and/or bookmark and/or kudo, and just as a heads up, we've probably stalked your profile if you've done any of these. (-:
> 
> So, chapter three!

“Will, these plates are in the wrong cupboard.”

Will glanced up at the call of his name, not yet trained to stand at attention at Hannibal’s address.

 “Oh, sorry. I’ll put them away…”

Hannibal moved aside, already dressed in the usual three-piece suit for work. Today’s theme was a checkered red-and-black jacket, the rest of the suit offering dark undertones to the eye. It was an impeccable ensemble—as impeccable as everything else Hannibal did, so Will had quickly come to realize. 

“This is the fourth time, Will,” Hannibal added, merely watching as Will scurried across the kitchen, a brief symphony of clashing glass gracing his eardrums.

Will bit back the retort that rested just behind his teeth, opting to offer Hannibal an apologetic glance. “I’m sorry. It won’t happen agai—”

He wasn’t even through speaking before the plates in his hands slipped in a moment of inattention, meeting the tiled ground in a spectacular shattering of white and otherwise decorated glass.

Upon looking immediately up, Will locked eyes with Hannibal. There were no forcibly hidden emotions lurking there, and Will almost sighed in relief. He hadn’t been ‘punished’ by Hannibal; at least, not yet. For that, he was thankful, to an extent.

Of course, he hadn’t been too ecstatic to finally come to terms with his current status of some rich psychiatrist’s bought housekeeper. And in any case, who bought _housekeepers_ from human traffickers? As far as Will knew, housekeepers weren’t so horrendously expensive that it was cheaper to resort to human trafficking, but when it came to Hannibal and the things he did, he supposed normal logic wasn’t a key factor in the man’s decisions.

In regards to his actual work as a housekeeper, the very day Will was well enough to move further than twenty feet without feeling the more extreme effects of his infliction, Hannibal had shown him what exactly the Romans did in his Rome.

And atop all of that, adapting to his new subtly toned surroundings—accented by immaculate silverware and lavish dinners that didn’t add up—hadn’t been the hardest part.

No, the _worst_ part was stomaching it all.

Will had felt supreme deprecation before; he’d been the epitome of self-hatred for as long as he could remember. But with this perfect human being taunting him at every turn, wrong or right, with _Hannibal Lecter_ already nesting within his recovering mind, the torture of having a constant witness to his pathetic existence was hard to shoulder, not to mention his unshakable desire for just _one more hit._ To forget everything for a little while was more appealing than death, at the moment.

And through it all, Hannibal had kept him alive, not to mention sober. Knives were out of bounds concerning Will; Hannibal had done all of the cooking so far. The man was a psychiatrist after all. It should be common sense that a recovering addict would be prone to ‘suicidal thoughts and tendencies’. It was like he was a disclaimer on the side of a drug prescription bottle.

But now this—these slivers of glass that could easily slit through skin and bleed life to the floor were just lying there. Will was utterly taken aback by the freedom a few dropped plates had given him. The freedom of death that he’d been denied for the past two weeks here, in this house, under the watchful eye of his buyer.

The psychiatrist moved fast—faster than Will could possibly react to. Hannibal grabbed his wrists, holding them together and pulling them high above his head. The man knew full well that Will would be helpless in his deteriorated state, and Will didn’t try to fight him off. He didn’t even know if he’d pick up one of the scattered keys to nothingness to begin with, because he had a strange feeling that even if he tried to die, he’d somehow be brought back by the devil holding him now.

“Go back to your room, Will,” Hannibal intoned quietly. He let go of Will’s wrists, and they dropped unceremoniously to his sides, limp. As if he were compelled, he began the trek upstairs back to his room, where he was secluded from whatever it was Hannibal did every day and night, unless he was called upon.

He truly was like a prostitute, housekeeper guise be damned.

Behind him, he heard the patter of broken glass, and didn’t have the heart to look back at the scene of the master cleaning the servant’s mess.

He made it back to his room sooner than he’d like. He hated his room. The dark colors were easy on his eyes and screamed rehab from each and every crevice. There was no furniture save a single bed, and he’d been told by Hannibal that this was the room he’d first woken in when he’d been bought, followed by a vivid retelling of his early withdrawal. Will had to admit that he would have been just fine living without knowledge of exactly how many times he’d puked his guts out and cried for opium and begged for death.

Yes, he’d rather not know all those things.

Even so, Hannibal’s word was law. It was less of an implied notion than something he’d been told when he’d regained enough conscience to process English properly, even if said English were accompanied by an inflection of its own.

Will came forward, not bothering to close the door behind him and sat on the edge of the bed. Hannibal would just come up to check on him, anyway, and maybe give him something else to do to ease his boredom if he was lucky. 

But luck was no friend of Will Graham’s.

He sat, counting as he usually did when he was alone. Once, after being dismissed, he’d counted roughly forty-three thousand, five hundred and three before Hannibal had called him back out to teach him how to sweep.

And thus, he’d formed a new philosophy to save himself from shattering completely, like those plates he’d dropped just minutes ago. If he was going to be a housekeeper, he was going to be the best damned, trafficked housekeeper there was. He could be broken, he could be a bit rough around the edges, but as long as he didn’t think about his lost fix, the pangs of want that lingered wouldn’t burn so brightly.

“Will.”

Said man tensed, having not sensed Hannibal’s approach. The man was his own adopted form of lethal; a quiet yet all-encompassing presence that, albeit subtly, demanded acknowledgement.

“Yes?” he replied, glaring up at Hannibal, who didn’t care to walk farther than the doorway.

“I am hosting a dinner party tonight, and you will be attending,” Hannibal said, dark eyes bright with what could have been mischief, but Will couldn’t tell, as Hannibal wasn’t quite the type to play his emotions about his face as they came.

“You will wear this,” he added, finally entering the room, and opened the closet to retrieve a three-piece suit that complemented Hannibal’s. The only thing Will cared to wonder was how it had gotten there without his knowledge of it.

 “Okay.”

Hannibal, not one to prolong his chats with Will, laid the suit on the bed and made for the door, but Will’s next words stopped him.

“What are we having?”

Hannibal turned back around, and the air surrounding the two seemed to drop twenty degrees at the freezing smile Hannibal offered.

“Lamb.”

Will shuddered despite himself. Hannibal nodded to the suit. “If you need help putting that on, I will be in the kitchen,” he said, the inexplicably brutal expression absconding from his visage, replaced with that defaulted stoic frown of his.

“Okay.”

Hannibal left as stealthily as he’d come. If Will didn’t know better, he might think Hannibal were a vision that his sickened mind had decided to throw at him as a joke, to let Will think he wasn’t alone without his opium or means to get it, though even Hannibal as a real person wasn’t much company anyways. He was always out at work, or attending high-end parties, or cooking.

That was probably the most human thing Will had ever seen Hannibal do. The way he cooked was passionate, purposeful. And whether Will wanted to accept it or not, it didn’t matter; he liked the show Hannibal put on when he had a knife in his hand and ingredients to use it on.

Will, reduced to a shiver, gave the suit a sidelong glance. He’d never been invited to any of Hannibal’s dinner parties, but the man had only held two during Will’s captivity—this would be the third. Will wasn’t apprehensive about it, but the thought of being around people…

That’s what confused him.

Will was a victim of human trafficking. He could fly off the handle as easily as he breathed his next breath in front of Hannibal’s guests. Was he _so sure_ of himself, so positive that Will wouldn’t do anything compromising, that he wasn’t worried about such a scenario in the slightest?

Bastard.

He stood, maneuvering around to the other side of the bed to get a better look at what he was expected to wear that evening. It was a dark gray themed suit, checkered akin to Hannibal’s red one.

He slipped off the nightwear he’d borrowed from Hannibal during the first night of his stay, then began pulling on the first piece of the suit. The black dress shirt felt like silk gold, matching the fine quality of everything else Hannibal owned. To be wearing something so valuable likened him to a sore thumb, and though he didn’t want to admit it, the dark color befit him well. His fingers fumbled as he buttoned up, unsure of themselves as he wasn’t accustomed to wearing suits at all, much less of this caliber. He then fit into the lightly toned vest of the ensemble, slipping the jacket on afterwards. He wasn’t surprised in the slightest that it fit to his figure without flaw.

Will could feel the beginnings of what might have been elation at the prospect of successfully dressing himself into a suit--that is, until he saw the tie that had been hidden beneath the layers of expensive fabric.

Right. A tie.

Though he had never tied a tie _himself_ , he decided that it couldn’t be that hard, so he picked up the lengthy accessory and tossed it back and around his neck. Starting with the tapered end, he knotted the tie around itself several times in multiple, equally odd fashions until it was reduced to a bulge of silk resting on his neck.

He stood still for a moment, silently reeling from his inability to simply tie a tie. His mind reflexively began weighing the pros and cons of actually going to Hannibal for help, seeing as no matter how hard he tugged on the knot, it wouldn’t come loose.

The man had said he was prepared to help, that he was just a call for assistance away. But, then again, it was Hannibal. Would the enigmatic man really cooperate with him? Will had a hunch he’d only make things more difficult for him.

After a few moments’ contemplation, he decided that collaboration against his mistake with the aid of a cultured mind would be best, and made way for the door.

Once downstairs, he stepped into the kitchen, encountering a spectacle he was reluctant to admit he never grew tired of. The only circumstance in which Hannibal would become expressive was when he cooked. It was a show of culinary arts as much as it was a show of flickering emotions across standardly deadpan features.

Hannibal, not one to let any detail slide past his inhumanly sharp vigilance, raised his gaze from his ingredients to Will, standing in the walkway.

“Do you need something, Will?” he asked, eyes briefly glancing downward at the pitiful lump of tie at Will’s neck.

“Can...you help me with this?” Will gave the knot another tug in indication of what exactly ‘this’ was.

Hannibal let the question hang for a moment before wiping his hands with a nearby dishrag. He strode toward Will, stopping with only inches to spare between the two, and placed his hands at the twisted coil of fibers.

“Have you not learned how to tie a tie, Will?” he asked tonelessly, not sounding explicitly interested but inquiring all the same as veteran digits began to work the puzzle loose.

“I’ve never really worn suits like this before,” Will offered in reply. “No need.”

“No need?”

“...Yeah. I never really did anything that required suit-wearing, or knowledge of how to tie a tie.”

“I see.”

And somehow, in the midst of their short conversation, which barely constituted a true conversation at all, Hannibal had freed Will from his mess. The tie now hung apart from his neck, and Hannibal remained right where he was, eyes trained on Will.

“Would you like me to tie it for you, Will?”

The shorter man looked to the side, Hannibal’s immense presence suddenly becoming palpable in the silence that followed his question. He’d already had his fair share of getting his worthless pride thrown straight back in his face during his short span of ‘employment’ so far, but that made it no less difficult to bite his tongue when it came time to swallow down his depleting ego.

“Yes, please.”

And just like that, yet again, the role of servant and lord were inverted once more as Hannibal got to work on Will’s tie, the sound of slipping silk being the only means to fill the silent void that was attracted like a magnet to Will and Hannibal during instances in which they were together.

Hannibal slipped the tie downwards, giving a final tug before letting it fall to where the bottom rested just above Will’s waistline. He gave Will’s chest a pat before turning away, back to his cooking.

While Hannibal prepared dinner, Will returned to his room without orders to nurse his faintly injured pride. Though Hannibal never did anything outright to humiliate Will, it was the little things, like knowing how to tie a tie while he did not that chipped away at Will’s fragile wall, threatening to completely compromise its base and send the rest tumbling down with these innuendoes that could seem frivolous to the untrained eye.

But Will knew that every word Hannibal spoke were more than just a collection of exotically accented sounds, and Hannibal knew that Will knew this as well. It made his subjugation all the more unbearable; while Will could certainly keep up with Hannibal’s intellectual onslaught,  however minor his attacks may be, he wasn’t able to return fire while his mind remained clouded by the aftermath of his former addiction.

He sat on his bed, confined within both his physical prison and the one he’d made for himself inside his mind. And though it was obvious which prison was more luxurious, he prefered his mental incarceration for equally obvious reasons.

And as his introspection deepened, time flew; while Will felt seconds trickling by, minutes ticked away, turning into multiple hours before Hannibal was at his door.

But by that time, Will had thought himself into a corner, succeeding only in afflicting himself with another headache that had become as typical as an offhand sneeze as of late.

Hannibal walked up to Will, who had hunched over and brought his hands to his head in a knowingly fruitless attempt to ease the headache from his system. It was his usual muted approach, and upon bringing a hand to Will’s shoulder to rouse the man from his daze he jumped, ripped from his dreamlike narcosis as suddenly as he’d slipped into it.

“Dinner is ready,” Hannibal said, retracting his hand, but he left it between the two of them in a wordless offer of assistance that may or may not have had a truce buried beneath its outlying design.

Will hesitated, wondering whether he’d have to sacrifice any more of his dignity that day, but he decided that even if Hannibal had intended his gesture to be armed with hidden barbs, he could simply ignore the sting. He grasped Hannibal’s outstretched palm, allowing himself to be pulled up by the undoubtedly stronger man.

“Some guests have arrived early,” Hannibal went on to say, and if Will was hearing correctly, there was a slight undertone of irritation tracing his tone, “so you are going to have to introduce yourself straightaway.”

Will nodded, though he was trailing behind Hannibal and the man wouldn’t have seen his response. After realizing this, Will hastily replied, “Okay. Sure.”

 

Now, the concept of sociality was obviously nothing new to Will. Contrary to the mass’s stereotypical view of those who yielded to a narcotic’s stupor, Will Graham was indeed an astute man. He understood the theory well. But one stereotype he was guilty of was that of isolation; Will did not take pleasure from being around people. He was, in fact, the opposite—a seasoned introvert. His tendency of constantly wanting to be alone had grown after years and years of permitting it to fester within his then-immature conscience, therefore inexorably affecting his views and perception as an adult.

So when Will was faced with a situation that required socializing, and within an elite league of associates no less, it would be an understatement to say that he was merely nervous.

The guests Hannibal had been talking about, the early birds, were all conjugated in Hannibal’s dining room, already seated and chatting calmly amongst themselves.

Hannibal stopped in the doorway, and Will utilized his understanding of standard social cues to step forward, presenting himself to the guests.

“Everyone,” Hannibal began, “this is my friend, Will Graham.” The man slipped on a smile as one slips on a mask; easy to put on and just as easy to take off.

Will nodded to the spontaneously transfixed group, wishing they all wouldn’t stare at him like he was some sort of bizarre art project on display.

But maybe he was rather like a weird project, in a sense.

“Um…hello, everyone. I’m Will Graham...nice to meet all of you…” Of course, Will didn’t hear the way his voice trailed off as he continued speaking, under the scrutiny of those from the higher end of society. Hannibal’s guests stared a moment longer before returning to their earlier conversation; they had synchronously agreed to ignore his introduction entirely, almost by telepathy, it seemed.

Deemed an outcast, yet again.

However, Hannibal didn’t miss a beat. He promptly brought a hand to the small of Will’s back, leading him to the empty seat next to the head of the table. He was being shown off. And though his sudden cognizance initiated the familiar drop of his stomach, he wasn’t surprised that Hannibal, nor his dinner guests, would have the decency to put on airs to humor him for the night.

He sat down, physically feeling the psychological effects of his imaginary wall crumbling to dust. He wondered, fleetingly, if this was what Hannibal had wanted out of the dinner party. To tear Will down with a final, concise blow that he didn’t even have to deal himself.

Will had to hand it to the man; it had been well played.

The meal went by in a manner of slow motion that Will didn’t feel like paying attention to. His flip-flopping stomach solidified as his indignance flared, his desire for a hit to free his compressed, jittery nerves to intoxication building up at the same time.

He barely tasted the food.

The guests came and went, and at some point, Will looked up to see Hannibal bidding the last of his visitants goodbye.

Whether he found the newly vacated dining room an ideal place to confront Hannibal was a mystery even to Will, but he shoved himself up from his seat to fix a heated glare towards the man who was, on the surface, picking up plates from the table. But maybe everything had a hidden meaning now, and he was still just mocking Will.

“So this,” Will started off shaky, his voice trembling in a mix of rage and shame, “is your idea of a good time? Do you just... _buy_ people for the sake of breaking them? Are other people’s lives simply a game to you?” Notwithstanding his own volition, his eyes began to sting with the formation of new tears, and he shifted so that Hannibal would not be able to see his face. He wasn’t sure why it still mattered, because Hannibal had probably seen this particular vulnerability from him many times from the weeks during his intense withdrawal phase, but maybe it was a feeble attempt at protecting the dust of his ruined ego.

Before Will knew what was happening, Hannibal was upon him, and when Will turned to face the man, he was more shocked to see some turbulent emotion playing about his features than their close proximity.

“Yes, Will. I did exploit you for my own personal amusement, but please keep in mind that I have paid not for your past, but for your present and future.” He let his eyes roam over Will’s face, and if he’d had a mirror, Will would see that the tears that were now overflowing left ugly stains down his cheeks. Delicately, as though Will were a frightened animal in need of coaxing, he raised a hand to wipe the stains away.

“I am going to make you anew, Will,” Hannibal whispered—it wasn’t an intonation this time. Will blinked more tears from his eyes and Hannibal stopped them all, brushing his fingers soothingly over the expanse of Will’s countenance. “Whatever happened in your past, I will overwrite all of it. I can do that for you, Will.”

Will felt the genesis of something other than the hiccups that rose in his throat take form. Despite everything he’d said up to that point, disregarding his feelings toward the man standing before him, he leaned into the touch, overcome by his own whirlwind of emotions and Hannibal’s words of salvation.

“I can only save you if you let me, Will.” Hannibal led Will forward until he was flush against Hannibal’s chest, tears seeping into the expensive suit. And though he was being utterly and completely manhandled by Hannibal, he found comfort there, with his eyes closed and soft fabric on his cheek.

And, as fleetingly as Hannibal’s emotions came and went, as softly as those hands had caressed him, Will nodded, not knowing whether his decision was truly his or Hannibal’s own will.

And though his selfdom had been entirely obliterated, though there was a hollow where his heart should be, it left all the more room for Hannibal to fill with his own essence.

Will was nothing close to a clean slate, but to chisel over the past was one of the many things Hannibal did best.


End file.
